The Sound of Rain
by Ninazadzia
Summary: Cato and Clove's swan song, told through a series of drabbles.
1. Rain

_**The Sound of Rain**_

By Ninazadzia

"You're so quiet tonight."

The soft pattering of the rain outside mingled with the sounds of mine and Clove's breathing. Our limbs were intertwined as I softly stroked Clove's forearm. Dinner plates were haphazardly stacked on the coffee table in front of us, and we'd long abandoned our ten-year-old Sunday ritual. Sunday was always our movie day. It was the only day Clove and I got home from the Academy in time for dinner.

That being said, the Reaping was the next day, and Romulus and Theses always end school early the day before the Reaping. Theses—my trainer of eleven years—had pulled me aside at the end of the day.

"I know you want to spend the night with her," he jerked his head in Clove's direction, "but get some sleep. You'll thank me later." I'd known for a while that I was this year's selected volunteer. I expected him to say something to me, but I certainly hadn't expected it to be that_._

Nevertheless, we didn't cancel our Sunday ritual. Although we'd spent most of the evening sitting in silence, not bothering to watch the B movie we'd rented. That's how I knew she was nervous. She'd been the bane of my existence for close to ten years. When Clove was quiet, it meant she was nervous.

"If you're worried about me, don't be," I muttered. "I'm going to win this thing, and I'm going to come home to you. I promise."

In District Two, It's forbidden to reveal whether or not you're the selected volunteer for the Hunger Games. But Clove was so smart that she assumed long before I did that I would be this year's volunteer. I didn't have any qualms talking about it to her.

She sighed, and ran a hand through her raven hair. "It's not that."

"Then what is it?"

She lifted her head off of my shoulder, and her gaze held on to mine. I don't know what I expected her to say, but I hoped it was that she loved me. We'd never said "I love you."

Instead, she whispered to the rhythm of the rain, "We're both going into the arena."

**A/N: Written for the Shipping Week at Caesar's Palace! Cato and Clove is my shit so I absolutely had to write them—this is different and more subdued than my usual style, so I hope you all enjoyed!**

**xx Nina**


	2. Sweat

Beads of sweat rolled down my forehead. I imagined the dummy was Theses, or Romulus, or any of the other trainers at my Academy. _This is for you—_I dug the spear into his heart—_for throwing me into this mess—_I slashed off its head—_with my girlfriend._

Ten yards away from me, knives whizzed through the air. I didn't even have to look to know they were hitting the bulls-eye every time. Clove had always been extremely talented. It was easy to ignore the sounds the knives made when they hit the targets. What was difficult to ignore was the sound of my heart racing.

We'd spoken once since the Reaping, while we were on the train to the Capitol. We didn't talk until after the fact—after we'd screwed each other senseless, in a drunken stupor from a stolen bottle of tequila. I didn't know whether to tell her to leave or to hold her closely. She'd been so cold since that night.

"Did it hurt?" I asked hoarsely.

"I don't feel anything," she replied.

She wouldn't look me in the eye. And instead of letting my gaze probe her naked body, I couldn't look away from her hazel eyes.

"Why now?" I asked.

"I wanted to know what it was like," she replied.

I opened my mouth to tell her, _stop talking like that. You'll have plenty of sex once you get out of the arena. _But then I remembered that her victory meant my death.

We didn't say anything for a minute. I reached up, and brushed the sweat away from her forehead. We'd gone for so long. The sheets around us were soaked with perspiration.

She finally turned to look at me.

I opened my mouth to say it. "Clove—"

"It's going to be you," she said, firmly. "It has to be. If you let anyone else kill me, I'll never forgive you."

A lump lodged in my throat. _You can't ask me to do that. I won't be able to._ But that wasn't true. We grew up in a rough neighborhood. I'd killed people before: gang members that had gone after my siblings. Thieves who'd robbed my parents. I'd even known some of my victims personally. But once you separated the act from the emotion, killing was all the same.

So I evenly said, "I'll make it fast."

"Good." And then she slipped out my bed, redressed herself, and left my room.

And with that memory in mind, I returned to the present. I returned to the Capitol, to the training center, and to the task at hand. I looked to my right and stole a glance. She was in the midst of throwing another knife. I watched the ripple of her muscles as she released the weapon from her grasp; her back was to me, and that made it all the more mesmerizing. I allowed myself ten seconds. Ten seconds of gluttonous, forbidden staring, before I returned to my dummies.

This was the way it had to be. We had our one drunken night. Now minimal interaction and talking would have to suffice. Anything more would be too painful.


End file.
